


sticks and stones

by capriciouslouis



Category: Constantine (TV), DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 04:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15834195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capriciouslouis/pseuds/capriciouslouis
Summary: "You're a bloody genius, Barry!" says John.Gary blinks, and just a little of the enthusiasm fades from his expression. "Gary," he says."Right," says John, clapping him genially on the back. "Whatever."He knows what Gary's name is. He just doesn't like the way it tastes on his tongue. This isn't the first time a man named Gary has looked at John with such trusting devotion, but he'll be damned if he lets this one turn out the same way.





	sticks and stones

**Author's Note:**

> spoilers for constantine season 1 (specifically 1x04) and legends season 3. based on these scenes from legends s3. 
> 
> i just started watching constantine and this idea grabbed me and wouldn't let go, so... angst!!!! this is my first time writing these characters so let me know if i can make any improvements!! comments are always deeply appreciated <3
> 
> warnings for swearing, references to sex, some sexual humour, alchol abuse, some mild off-page violence.

It starts with a rooster.

On a point of accuracy, it probably started with him shagging Sara Lance’s brains out in a psychiatric hospital in the 1970s - but it makes for a far better story to say that the whole thing began with a Time Agent grabbing his cock.

~*~

He thought he’d seen the last of Sara; loved her and left her, no strings attached. Just the way he likes it.

He should’ve known better. Now she’s gone and got herself possessed by a totem-wielding death demon, and two of her mates have turned on his doorstep, begging him to sort it all out.

They’re not part of the Legends, these two. Time Agents, they call themselves, which sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘cops’. John never was too fond of those. One of them is a woman; blonde. Up her own arse. She doesn’t like him much and isn’t making much of an effort to hide it; probably because he shagged Sara first. He’d happily reassure her that it was a one-time offence, if he didn’t think she’d break his jaw before he even got the words out.

The other, though, is a geeky lad. Huge glasses, over enthusiastic. Fairly pretty, actually. Not John’s usual type, but that isn’t a bad thing.

Not that he’s looking, obviously. He’s busy sketching out a symbol on the ground. He doesn’t hold out much hope of getting Sara back, but the least he can do is try to communicate with her. And when it all goes south, maybe the geeky lad will need a little bit of comforting. It’s not that he doesn’t feel bad about Captain Lance, but when opportunity comes knocking, he’s not about to say no… especially not when said opportunity has such a fantastic arse.

 _Eyes on the sigil, Constantine._  

Geeky hovers over him, peering interestedly at the sigil. “You know, I’m actually a level nine warlock myself,” he says.

Blondie sneers. “Dungeons and Dragons doesn’t count.”

Geeky looks crestfallen, drooping like a flower in need of water. John gets to his feet and dusts chalk off his trousers. “Not to worry, love, I’m sure you’re powerful enough in your own right. ...What did you say your name was again?”

He brightens. “I’m Gary! Gary Green.”

John stills. He can feel the memories shifting around inside his head. His own personal demons… except there’s no way of exorcising those bastards. No way to forget the feel of a crushing grip on his, sweaty fingers squeezing his hand until it bruises. The sound of a man’s dying screams as he thrashes against his constraints, sweat sheeting down his scarred face... and John sitting beside him in silence, eyes fixed on the man’s tortured face, both of them waiting for him to die.

“Right,” he says quietly. “‘Course you are.”

“And this is Ava,” says Gary, not noticing anything amiss.

Unfortunately, Miss Ava is more perceptive. “You okay there, Constantine?” she says. “You look a little distracted.”

“I’m grand,” he says, forcing a smile onto his face. He claps his hands together and sits down in the centre of his sigil, next to a large candle. “Now. Who’s ready to see some magic?”

Gary, bless him, actually claps.

~*~

He _thought_ he was supposed to be helping Sara and the Legends, not giving out relationship advice - and god knows John Constantine should not be giving anybody advice on a relationship, unless he’s telling them  how to end it. But somehow, he’s ended up holding a dismembered foot and listening to Ava bemoan the sorry state of her love life.

Today is not exactly panning out the way he thought it would.

“She wouldn’t have called you her girlfriend unless she liked you, Pet,” he says. “If she’s made a claim to you, that suggests she thinks you’re worth holding onto.” He thumps the foot down on the table, eyeing the toes. “Last thing she said to me was ‘thanks for the shag.’”

“Ugh,” says Ava.

“Crude, but well-intended,” says Gary. “Manners cost nothing.”

“I will pay you to never mention you, Sara and sex again in the same sentence,” Ava tells John.

“Give us a hundred dollars and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Done,” she says, leaning back in her seat. “But first we have to find the Legends.”

“And how do we do that, then?”

“You’re the wizard,” she says. “You tell me.”

“I’m a warlock,” says John, banging the foot down on the table, “not a wizard. And I’m certainly not a bloody sat-nav. Funnily enough I don’t have a spell for locating a missing time-ship that’s floating mindlessly through the vast emptiness of the space-time continuum; that one’s never really come up. Though I do have one that’s very good for finding missing TV remotes.”

“This is a waste of time,” says Ava, glaring at the foot.

“This really reminds me of my D&D group,” Gary says thoughtfully.

“Point proven.”

“What exactly is this D&D malarkey?” asks John.

“Don’t get him started.”

“ _Well_ ,” says Gary.

Ava grabs the foot and points it aggressively at him. “Keep it relevant,” she warns, “or else you don’t even wanna _know_ where I’m going to stick this.”

“Kinky,” says John. “I know our Sara’s a bit of a wild gal, but I’d suggest you consider saving something like that at least for the second date.”

Ava glowers.

“This whole situation reminds me of a campaign my group ran last year,” Gary says, and he launches into a complicated tale of wizardry and woe.

John can’t completely follow the story, but the gist of it is that Gary is comparing every member of the Legends to the characters from this fantasy game he’s been playing. It’s all ‘Zanatar the Unburnt’ this, and ‘Swords of Sorrow’ that; riveting stuff, he’s sure, if only he could bloody well understand it.

He’s really beginning to doubt the relevance of the story by the time Gary gets to the part about the gnome, but once he reaches the part where everybody dies a terrible death at the hands of an undefeatable evil, he’s starting to see how the shoe fits.

Ava seems to disagree. “God damnit, Gary!”

“No, no, wait, I’m not done!” protests Gary. “Okay, so on this occasion things didn’t exactly turn out in our favour, _but_ before we all went to our grisly doom, we did manage to track the mystical object that Zanatar was wielding.”

“The Sword of Bloody Sorrow!” John says triumphantly, and he grabs Gary's face and kisses him.  
  
Gary tastes clean, not like John with his cigarette and whisky rumble. When they part, John expects Gary to be confused, or at the very least a little embarrassed, but he looks delighted. He's looking at John the way so many others have looked at him; with shining eyes, all excited adoration and admiration.

So John, being John, has to go and ruin it.  
  
"You're a bloody genius, Barry!" he says.

Gary blinks, and just a little of the enthusiasm fades from his expression. "Gary," he says.  
  
"Right," says John, clapping him genially on the back. "Whatever."

He knows what Gary's name is. He just doesn't like the way it tastes on his tongue. This isn't the first time a man named Gary has looked at John with such trusting devotion, but he'll be damned if he lets this one turn out the same way. 

Making a beeline for the table, he starts rooting through his phials, gathering ingredients. Gary hovers at his shoulder, beaming. Ava still looks confused.

“What exactly are we doing here?”

“We,” says John, “are not going to track the spaceship. We’re going to track the death totem.”

“But that’s genius!” says Ava.

“And it’s all down to our Barry,” says John.

He’s being an arse, and he knows it. But that is sort of the point. There is only one way to keep a good lad like Gary Green out of harm’s way, and that’s making sure that once this mess is over, the two of them lay eyes on each other again.

~*~

  
"So I was thinking," Gary says, as they walk through the winding corridors of the Waverider.

They’ve saved the day again. Sara’s back to her lovely self, not a pair of black eyes or contaminated veins in sight – and it’s all down to a combination of Gary’s geekiness and John’s magic. They make a good team, John thinks… but that is a dangerous line of thinking, and he quickly extinguishes it.

“John?”

“What?” he says. “Oh. Sorry. Carry on.”

“I was thinking,” Gary says again.

"Oh, you don't wanna do a thing like that, love,” says John. “I hear it rots your brain."  
  
"Right," says Gary. "Um. But I was wondering if, you know, maybe when this is all over, you and I could go for a drink some time."

John stops walking. A few seconds later, Gary stumbles to a stop, and they both stand in silence for a moment. Aside from the low hum of the Waverider’s engines and occasional hisses as air is released, nobody makes a sound.  
  
"That's not a good idea," says John.

"Why not?"

"You don't wanna get yourself mixed up with someone like me."

"Shouldn't it be my job to decide that?" Gary asks.

"That's the thing about informed consent," says John. "You kind of need to have all the facts. You don't know what you're getting yourself into."

"No," Gary says, "but I'd kind of like to find out."  
  
He closes his eyes. Thinks of an empty, rumpled sheets that reek of sweat and death. Blood spattering down his arm as he hacks into smooth, shiny cheeks with a weapon more suited to a display case than a ritual. Sees the blood mixing with agonised tears, shining in the eyes of a man who’d looked at him with all the sweet, dumb trust of an animal, and knelt in compliance as John tore him to shreds.  
  
"Trust me," says John. "You wouldn't."

  
  
~*~

  
He doesn't mean to make the call. It's just another addition to a long list of inadvisable decisions.  
  
It all happens on a cold night in October, when he swaggers in through the doorway of some shitty bar in Gotham, trying to run away from things he'd rather not think too much about. Really, he should know better by now. The things John Constantine tends to run from are not the kinds of things that ever stop chasing.  
  
This evening, the voices are louder than ever. Astra's pleas ring in his ears so loud that everything else is drowned out; she's soon joined by the cries of everybody else he's ever let down, and by God are there a lot of the poor buggers. Shame rises so thick in the back of his throat that he almost chokes on it, and so he walks into the bar looking for a pint and a fight, anything to act as a temporary reprieve from the constant torture of living inside his own head.  
  
A few hours later, he staggers out again, sans wallet and covered in blood, not all of it his. His knuckles look like a kiddie's finger-painting, all violent splashes of colour; he admires them as he lurches across the street, collapsing in the first empty doorway he encounters.  
  
He's screwed, he thinks, leaning against the wall. His wallet and ID are in the hands of some bastard in the bar he's just vacated, along with his trench coat and a whole lot of interesting witchy paraphernalia that was in the pockets. The only thing he has managed to hang onto is, typically, the one thing he wouldn't have been too fussed about losing: a mobile phone, of the cheap plastic pay-as-you-go variety. Gary had shoved it into his pocket the last time they met; said that it was Ava’s idea. That it was important for them to be able to reach him in a crisis. Judging by Gary’s expression, Ava had nothing to do with it, but John had kept the phone anyway, even after he turned the lad down about a date. He hadn't given much thought to it after that.

If there’s one thing this should teach him, he thinks as he digs the phone out of his pocket with clumsy fingers, it’s that he really should pay more attention to changing his clothes once in a while.  
  
Miraculously, the thing still has some charge. They're as persistent as the devil, these little Nokia things. There's only one number saved, and with few other options, John makes the call.  
  
After a few rings, the call connects, and a voice says groggily, "Hello?"

"Harry, love," John says. "I was wondering if you could do me a favour."  
  
A moment of silence, before Gary says brightly, "Sure. What's up?"

"I might have found myself in a spot of bother," John says lightly. "I paid a little visit to a charming establishment in Gotham, and I seem to have misplaced my wallet." He probes around his mouth with his tongue, and winces. "And maybe a few teeth."

"Teeth?!" Gary says, alarmed.

"Only the back ones, love, don't worry; I'm still as handsome as ever," he says. It’s almost definitely a lie. Covered in blood and reeking of cheap booze, he’s looked better - though it's safe to say that he's also looked worse. "Any chance of a lift, then?"

This is the point where most people would hang up. But Gary Green is not most people.

"Of course!" he says, and John hears rustling as he fights his way out of bed. "Where exactly are you?"

"Outside a delightful pub in Gotham called..." John squints at the battered sign. "The King's Table. Booze is shit; locals aren't much better, but the bogs are all right."

"Just give me a second," says Gary.

Less than a minute later, a portal opens across the street, like a square punched out of the fabric of reality. John blinks. He's seen some crazy shit in his lifetime, but never anything quite like that. By far the weirdest part is Gary himself. He’s dressed in literal blue and white striped pyjamas, and John half expects to see a daft bobble hat on his head, pom-pom swinging.

As he limps towards the portal, John asks, "And who are you supposed to be? Wee Willie Winky?"

"Huh?" says Gary, hovering on the threshold.

It's starting to drizzle, miserable rain clinging to John's hair and his clothes. "Never mind," he says. "Room in there for two?"

Gary holds out his hand, and John takes it.

The next thing he knows, he's being yanked across the threshold. The portal closes behind him, and he finds himself standing in a cosy living room, all lined with books and an assortment of nerdy nick-knacks.

"Better than Doctor Who's TARDIS, this, mate," says John, looking around.  
  
"Oh, I wish," says Gary. "It's just my apartment."

"You've got a magic door to your apartment?"

"Time courier," says Gary, holding up his wrist to show off a clunky device that looks a bit like a watch. "It'll take me just about anywhere."

"Now where can I get one of those?" asks John, eyeing it appreciatively.

"A minimum of three years intensive study, courtesy of the Time Beaureau," says Gary, removing the device and placing it reverently on his bedside table.

 "So a little bit harder to get hold of than a drivers' license."

"Depends on your viewpoint. I failed my driving test six times. Got this baby on the first try."  
  
“Aren’t you a clever clogs?”

John decides to have a wander, because  he’s a nosy bastard. Luckily Gary doesn’t seem to mind. He preens as John examines the books on his shelves; an eclectic mix of everything from comics to classics, though it’s mostly of the sci-fi/fantasy leanings. Then John makes his way through to the kitchen, which is like something out of a catalogue; all clean marble surfaces and built in appliances. Something tells him that Gary actually uses them, too, doesn’t live on microwave meals the way John does. When he gets access to a microwave, that is. 

Speaking of microwaves… he gets a glimpse of his reflection in the black glass of the microwave door and pulls a face. He’s not a very pretty sight.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a bathroom I could use?”

“Oh, sure!” says Gary. “It’s just this way.”

The bathroom is as clean as the kitchen, the shower gleaming like something out of a five-star hotel - though the Darth Vader bath towel hanging on the rack does sort of ruin the effect. Gary whips out a first aid kit and a clean white towel, before making his exit so that John can clean himself up.

It doesn’t take long to make himself presentable - well, presentable-ish. He’s definitely got some teeth missing, but he has to grin like a maniac before it’s really noticeable. His eyes are also bloodshot and his skin is raw from scrubbing all the blood off, but he could probably get into hotel in this state. That is, if someone hadn’t stolen his wallet.

He emerges to find Gary waiting for him, holding what looks like a barcode scanner.

“I thought I could fix your teeth,” he says. “I mean, if you wanted.”

“No offence, squire, but you don’t look like much of a dentist.”

“Oh, it’s time agent technology,” says Gary. “Grows back anything from toenails to missing limbs. I’m sure we can rustle up a couple of molars. Say ‘ahh.’”

Obligingly, John opens his mouth. Gary aims the device, and John has to close his eyes, because he’s half expecting to end up with fangs growing out of his nostrils - but a few seconds later, there’s an unpleasant tingling sensation, and then a few rapid stabs of pain. He almost jerks back, but Gary grabs him by the waist, holding him still. The pain intensifies - and then Gary releases him and John shakes his head, feeling like he’s just been socked in the jaw.

“Better?” asks Gary.

Before he can say ‘Actually, it’s ten times bloody worse,’ he hesitates. Prods around his gums with his tongue. All the painful gaps in his mouth have been filled in again, better than before. There’s a clean edge on one tooth that used to be rough; he’d chipped it years ago in another bar fight. He’s nothing if not consistent.

“Good as new,” he says.

“Oh good. I’m so glad that worked. I’ve never tried re-growing teeth before,” Gary says cheerfully.

“Good of you to mention that _after_ you stuck some mad futuristic dental device in my mouth.” He works his jaw for a couple of seconds, then says briskly, “Right. I’d best be off.”

“Off?”

“That’s right.”

“You can’t leave!” says Gary. “It’s late -”

“I’m used to things that go bump in the night.”

“And you’re drunk -”

“Drunk?” John says, outraged. “Tipsy at worst.”

Gary draws himself up to his full height. “You’re staying here tonight,” he says. “With me.”

John looks him up and down. He could force the issue, but Gary looks so earnest. And to be honest, John really is knackered.

“All right,” he says. “I’ll kip on the sofa.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’ve had a lot of movie marathons on that couch. It’s probably full of Dorito dust.”

“Right,” says John. “So I’ll sleep on the floor, then.”

“What? No, silly, you can sleep in my bed with me.”

 _Oh._ So it’s like that, is it? With difficulty, John keeps the smirk off his face. He’d been planning to stay away from Gary Green, but perhaps it wouldn’t do any harm to love him and leave him. Get these silly feelings out of his system and do a disappearing act in the morning. Those are kind of his specialty.

“Go on, then,” he says.

Turns out the joke’s on him: when Gary said sleep, he bloody meant it. By the time he’s found John a spare toothbrush and a pair of dorky pyjamas just like Gary’s, but with stripes in a charming shade of red, it’s become very apparent that there won’t be any hanky-panky going on tonight. John would be rolling his eyes about it, if Gary wasn’t such a sweetheart, making sure his pillows are plumped up and offering him cocoa before they turn in.

They slide in between the sheets together, and John lies flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

“Goodnight, John,” mumbles Gary, already drifting off.

“Night,” John says, and, closes his eyes.

 

~*~ 

He oversleeps.

He had every intention of waking up early, sneaking out before Gary has the chance to wake. He’s done it a million times before; he rarely sleeps well in strangers’ beds, almost always makes it out before the sun hits the sky. It must be something about Gary’s comfy bed or his comfy pyjamas, because by the time John finally wakes up, _he’s_ the one lying in an empty bed. 

Sitting up, he glances round. There’s a window he could climb out of, but no sign of his clothes. Crafty bastard must have moved them to stop him escaping. If he was really desperate, he could leave regardless, but he wouldn’t make it more than a few metres down the street in Gary’s goofy jim-jams without getting his arse kicked.

There’s only one solution. Grinding his teeth, he goes to look for Gary.

He finds him in the kitchen, scrambling eggs.

“Morning,” Gary says cheerfully.

“Someone’s nicked my clothes,” says John.

“Oh, they’re in the dryer. I figured now we’ve got you all cleaned up, you shouldn’t be walking around in clothes with blood on them.” He beams. “The eggs are almost ready; you want some?”

“I’m not really a breakfast kind of guy.”

“It’s the most important meal of the day,” Gary says sternly.

“Actually, love, that’s not quite what I meant.”

Gary turns off the burner, puts down his spatula and turns around, arms folded. “You’re giving off some pretty mixed signals here, you know that?”

“I know, I just - ”

“First, you kiss me. Then you basically tell me you’re not interested, which is fine, I guess - but then you call me in the middle of the night expecting me to scrape you off the pavement, you sleep in my _bed,_ and yet you can’t bring yourself to stick around for breakfast? You – you can’t even say my name! I just don’t - ”

“I knew a lad named Gary, once,” John says.

There’s a long silence. Gary, who was standing on his toes – presumably to make himself more imposing – slowly lowers himself to the floor. Evidently this wasn’t quite the response he was expecting.

“Mate of mine,” John adds. “Bit of a screw-up, but he meant well.”

“Knew?”

“Yeah,” says John. “He’s dead.”

There’s an uncomfortable pause. He can’t stand to leave it empty.

“Kicked the bucket. Pushing daisies. Shuffled off this mortal coil. Dead as a dodo.”

“Yeah, I think you made that clear,” Gary says quietly. He looks at the floor. “I didn’t know.”

“Course you didn’t. Wouldn’t expect you to. But perhaps now you understand why I’m not too keen to go shouting your name from the rooftops and taking you on cosy little dates, considering the last man with your name who came near me got so badly traumatised that he turned himself into a heroin addict.”

“He overdosed?” Gary says softly.

“If only,” says John. “That would’ve been a far better way to go.”

They both stand in silence with the smell of burning eggs wafting through the air. The tiles are cold beneath John’s toes. He can’t hear the dryer any more, which means he could go retrieve his clothes and leave right now… but he doesn’t want to break the quiet. There are too many memories hanging in the balance.

“If it makes you feel better,” says Gary, “you could call me something else.”

John cocks his head. “Like a nickname?”

“Sure. Gary’s a pretty short name already, but you could go the other way. Call me ‘Garold’. Or ‘Gartholomew.’ Ooh, how about ‘Gazza G?’” 

He strikes an appalling pose, like a rapper – or a fifteen-year-old’s idea of one. John snorts.

“No offence,” he says, shaking his head. “but I think I’d rather stick my head in the oven.”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” Gary leans against the counter. “I don’t want to push you. And if you really wanna leave, I’m not going to stop you. But for the record, I like you a lot. And I’m also like, super afraid of injections, so I’m not going to get addicted to heroin any time soon.” He gives a shy smile. “I meant what I said back on the Waverider. I’d like to get to know you… if you’d let me.”

John can’t quite bear to look at him. “The people around me… they get hurt.”

“Good thing I’m first-aid trained.”

“Proper little boy-scout, aren’t you, Gary?”

It doesn’t hurt as badly as he thought it would, saying his name. After all, he rarely called his Gary by his full name; it was usually just ‘Gaz.’ Or, by towards the end, ‘that bloody idiot.’ And Gary Green is nothing like the Gary he used to know, with his rough Irish brogue and more money than sense; the constant sweaty fug of weed that used to hang about him before he moved onto the hard stuff, and after that, the sweaty forehead and hands shaking from withdrawal. There’s no comparison between them, really.

If he’d ever kissed Gaz - and you couldn’t have paid him to - he would have tasted sour. Like dirt from the grave John had put him in.

“I like you,” Gary whispers, like it’s a secret.

“I like you too,” John says. The name hangs between them like an incantation, a moment of magic he could easily breathe to life.

He lets it stay there. That name isn’t going to sit right on his tongue for some time yet. But maybe it will, eventually.

 


End file.
